It's a long complicated story
by 33siamese
Summary: Sherlock at first... Read to find out
1. Chapter 1

It was the middle of December, and John Watson was chilled to the bone. He stood with his arms crossed, rubbing them together hastily. The crime solving duo, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, were inside what seemed like an old mansion. Right now they were in the main hall, but spiraling staircases and darkened doorways lead farther into the house.

"Sherlock, for gods sake, it's like negative 5 degrees in here." John grumbled, turning around the room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Actually John it's negative 8." John shot him a look and stuck his hands in his pockets. "And could you please cut the whining down to the minimum, I am actually working here." He pulled out a magnifying glass and proceeded to look down at the ground.

John looked around the hall. Cobwebs hung from every corner and old tapestries and portraits hung from the walls. Their eyes seemed to follow John wherever he went. He was hardly ever afraid, even when he was in the middle of war, he was always the calm and steady soldier. But now, a strong sense of urgency filled him. He felt like a caged animal, like there was no way out.

"But of course there is," The army doctor spoke aloud. "Why, the door's right there, and nothing's blocking it."

"What are you chattering on about?" Sherlock demanded, looking up from the floor. He looked slightly irritated, and seemingly unphased by whatever was bothering John.

"Nothing I just..." John stepped back and wrung his hands. "I'll just go check the back garden for clues. We might find something that would lead to Mrs. Diann's disappearance."

Sherlock made no sound or movement to get up. John frowned and walked over to the front door. A spider had crawled onto his front jacket pocket. He brushed it away; at least there was something he wasn't afraid of.

John turned the knob with difficulty. "Sherlock?" He grunted with exertion. "It's not opening."

Sherlock spun around. "Well then try the back door!" He shook his head and started checking behind doors and under rugs. "Where is it...?" He started muttering to himself. "Why is there no evidence?"

John sighed and hesitantly walked to the hallway behind the stairs. The dark shadows seemed to be reaching fingers sprawled out to grab him, and the the wind howling outside was the moaning of the undead, trying to get inside. John shook his head and walked through the doorway.

His own footsteps were the only sound as John tiptoed down the carpeted hall. He pulled out a flashlight and shined the light across the wallpaper. John thought back to this very case he and Sherlock has recieved that morning, wondering how he had ended up in this dump.

"So you're saying that... Odelia Diann just disappeared?" John sat with his pen held just above the paper, a quizical expression plastered on his face.

"Yes, yes. She was here one minute, and then-" she made a explosion hand guesture. "-poof!"

"I see." John wrote down notes for his blog on the notepad. Mostly the words consisted of crazy and insane. John didn't usually like to judge clients, but this woman defiantly fit the bill of "insane." She had frazzled auburn hair pulled into a messy bun with a sleeveless top that was no match for the winter weather, and yellow pajama pants that the fashion police would've arrested her for. And to make it even worse, she was sitting in Sherlock's chair, causing him to be especially irritated.

"Ms. Burns-" Sherlock swung his violin bow over his shoulder. "How old are you?"

Mrs. Burns (whose first name was Dolly) shot Sherlock a look. "You should never ask a women-"

Sherlock interrupted. "Age."

Dolly's mouth opened and closed twice. "Well...I'm, well. I'm 47."

Sherlock smiled wryly. He pulled a pamphlet out of his robe pocket. "Well it's a little early but you seem to be showing signs."

Ms. Burns looked shocked. "I'm 47! I don't have-" she looked down at the pamphlet. "-age increasing memory loss."

John sighed and snatched up the pamphlet. "Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock stood up. "Well it's been nice seeing you, but you must get going. Get that condition treated." Sherlock patted Dolly on her shoulder and started to walk her towards the door.

"Mr. Holmes!" Dolly spoke with a fiercer voice than before. There was an edge of something on her voice. It was something that moved armies and stopped brave men in their tracks. Fear. Sherlock stopped talking and spun around.

"Mr. Holmes-" she was slower now. "Have you ever heard, of the _Crawley Estate_?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Several emotions crossed his face at the same moment, and it seemed that almost definitely, Sherlock had heard of the Crawley Estate.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John tentatively spoke up. The army doctor unfortunately once again had no clue what was going on.

"And you're sure this was the Crawley Estate?" Sherlock's face was blank.

"Mr. Holmes, do you think I wouldn't know where I was when my best friend disappeared?" Dolly looked offended.

Sherlock stared into the distance for a while, thinking intently. Finally he spoke. "I'll take the case."

"What?" John spat out his water he was sipping. "We don't even know what happened? One moment she's crazy and now we're taking the case? And what's the Crawley Estate?"

"The Crawley Estate once belonged to Richard Crawley." Dolly broke in, picking at her nail polish. "It was in the 1940's when everyone was on edge. It's a long and complicated story, and no one really knows the full of it. But Richard was supposedly a great man. He gave to the poor and some even say he was a spy for Great Britian against the enemy." She paused and tried to find the right words. "But one day he was just gone. He never came back, he was never found. Even the government claims they have no idea where he is. It's been 60 years and still no more Richard Crawley."

"Oh." Was all John could muster out. "But why was Ophelia at his estate?"

"Oh, loads of people have been there before. Trying to find out the secret of his disappearance I suppose." Sherlock swung his bow around. "But in the last 7 years no one's stepped foot anywhere near there. Suddenly, the mystery is added." Sherlock had a gleam in his eye.

"Yes but Ophelia wasn't just a person looking for the secret. She never told me what, but it seemed like she knew something else was there. Something she didn't want to talk about. Something old and ancient... and dangerous." Dolly smiled sadly. "She was always creating these fanciful tales."

Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth. He didn't say anything, but John knew he wasn't telling him information.

"What happened the night she disappeared?" John prodded.

"We were just taking pictures of the house, you know? "I'm going around to the back of the house" she says. And I waited there for a long time. I waited and waited, and I called her name, but she was just gone. No footprints, no scream, just this-" Ms. Burns pulled out a multi-colored scarf from her pants pocket. "This is all that's left of her."

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed and stood up. "Well, we better get started." He stretched and opened the door for Dolly. "We'll contact you when we get more information."

They said their goodbyes rather hurriedly and practically pushed Dolly out the door.

"What's the rush?" John said, pulling the curtains aside and looking at the darkening sky.

"John! This is the best case we've had in months!" Sherlock stepped on the armrest of the chair and brought down his flashlight from the bookshelf. "We have to start now before I die of boredom."

John eyed the yellow smiley face on the wall. "Yeah, better not let you be bored again."

And so ended John's flashback.

He wondered why Sherlock was so interested by the Crawley Estate. So far nothing had seemed too extraordinary by his standards.

_I wonder if he knows what's going on_. John thought to himself, tugging on his sweater hem. _I sure wish I did. _

John poked his head around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. In the middle of what appeared to be the dining room, a grey statue stood on top of the table.

It seemed to be in the shape of an angel, with a tunic and wide marbeled wings spreading over it's head. It looked extremely old and uncared for. The dress was cracked and had green roots sprouting from the stone. The head had a rather large chuck missing from the top.

But the most unsettling part to John, was the eyes. One hand was halfway across the cheek, and the other was covering part of the eye as if it was crying. The one eye John could see was pure blank and when John looked, it was almost hard to look away.

John walked up to the statue. "Oh isn't that cute." He said, eyeing the mirror across the room that the angel seemed to be staring into. "Looking at yourself in the mirror."

Something compelled John to reach a shaking hand out to touch the stone. His heart pounded as he reached out, about the stroke the Angel's hand.

Instantly, a sudden pain hit John in the back of the head. "Ouch!" He exclaimed, rubbing his neck. He looked around, but all he could find was a tiny rock that had hit him. John scowled and walked out of the room, taking one last look at the Angel.

Almost as soon as he looked away, a sense of relief passed over him. John didn't realize how hard his heart was beating. He closed his eyes and proceeded to walk toward the back door.

When he reached his destination, John pushed open the door with ease. He was surprised to see that it was only 7:30. The sky was a pale salmon color, with a few fluffy clouds dotting the atmosphere like a painting. The air was chilly, and John zipped up his black jacket.

"Let's see..." He said to himself, looking around the house for any hint of a struggle. But to no avail, there was not even a hint of a clue. There was only some old trash and empty Dr. Pepper bottles.

John sidestepped and decided to try the side garden for more information.

His heart skipped a beat inside his chest.

Three more of the strange angels were standing with their eyes hidden with their hands. One was by the rotten tomatoes, one by the back gate, and one by the window for the house, where John was not 10 minutes ago.

He stood unblinking at the statues for 15 seconds, his heartbeat in his ears.

"What is the matter with you?" He scolded himself. "What's there to be afraid of?"

But then John saw what there was to be afraid of.

Slowly, without thinking of it, he blinked.

There was a rush of wind and a feeling of great fear fell over John as he opened his eyes. He screamed when he saw what was waiting.

The Angels had moved! Where they had all stood seperate before, now stood together as one in a row, hands still covering their eyes.

John swore loudly and stumbled backwards. "Oh my god." He breathed and didn't move. He was afraid to move.

"It's a magic trick." He said, rubbing his temples. "It has to be a trick."

John had done plenty of strange things for Sherlock, but this was terrible. How could the Angels have moved?

John blinked again.

This time they were closer and had their mouths open, ready to get John Watson.

"Sherlock!" John yelled and pulled his weapon out of his pocket, keeping it aimed at the statues. "Sherlock we have to leave!" John bounded into the house, bellowing Sherlock's name, not paying attention to the stone angels that followed him from behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Unknowingly to John, the angels stopped. They sensed a greater source of time energy than an ordinary army doctor. Well, ordinary to them but he really wasn't. Sherlock doesn't associate with ordinary people very often. When he does, he usually shouts at them to get information out of them.

"Sherlock!" John continued running through the abandoned house bellowing his name.

"In here." Came a calm voice. "Get Molly on the phone," John stumbled into the room gasping for breath and caught Sherlock's phone.

"Did you...?" John was breathless. "You didn't see anything..." He put his hands on his knees. "Strange in here did you?"

Sherlock squinted at him. "No. What's wrong?" He stood up. "You look like you've been...frazzled."

"Oh I'm fine, just terrorized by a bunch of statues, but fine" John threw up his arms. "I'll just be your personal secretary, No big deal" John punched the number into Sherlocks phone angrily.

"You know you could have just looked in the favorites," Sherlock muttered, "No need to take out your anger on the phone."

"Whatever, Um yes Hello, it's me, yes it's John!" John paced around then spotted it. "Sherlock? What have you got there?" He was staring at the body of Ophelia. The description matched perfectly to what Dolly had said. "What? No, I was talking to Sherlock. No I haven't got any idea why I'm his personal secretary at the moment. I thought he could act his age and make his own calls. Yes, fine. Hold on" John tossed the phone to Sherlock who caught it in one hand without looking up from Ophelia. "Nice catch" John said sarcastically. Sherlock was undeterred by his sarcasm and up the phone up to his ear. Molly's voice seemed like she was angry but, Sherlock just smiled. It was as if Sherlock had began to fancy her because all of a sudden she had a backbone. It was odd. He had stopped embarrassing her on a daily basis and smiled like a proud parent when she stood up to him. That made John wonder. No, no of course not. Sherlock thought that love in general was a human error and the last girlfriend he had he was using to break into a building. John smiled, of course that would be his best friend a sociopath with no emotions whatsoever.

"Oh hello Molly, I don't care if your eating lunch, Come on down to the Crawely estate, I think you'll be pleased." Sherlock smiled "Yes of course it's a murder what else? I'm here now I have a cab waiting outside the hospital" he hit the end button.

"How do you have a cab outside the hospital?" John asked forgetting he was supposed to be examining the woman.

"I have my ways &amp; sources. Having a brother who controls the British government helps too. Though I wish he would stop telling me that." He smirked and stuck up his nose "I'm the King of England and mummy's favorite." He said in a high pitch voice as he mocked his older brother.

"Why do I even bother?" John muttered to himself knowing that Sherlock wouldn't have listened any way. He knelt down and resumed examining Olphelia.

"Hmm, that's odd." His face was cloudy with confusion. He felt her neck.

"John how intelligent lacking are you? She's obviously dead. _Why_ she's dead is the question." Sherlock insulted him as if John was a five year old.

"I know she's dead it's just..." John resumed examining her neck. His face was the picture of confusion. "I don't see how I mean," John muttered to himself. He stood up and walked around the body. Then resumed examining her.

"What just what!?" Sherlock all but shouted at him.

"Her neck," he paused to be sure of himself, examining her even more closely, "Its broken." He looked up to see Sherlocks reaction. Sherlock looked puzzled and knelt down to examine her. After a few moments he took a picture of her shoes. They weren't anything fancy just the typical shoes for the typical 'hipster'. Sherlock went on to type some things into search engine. Then, he smiled and looked up at John.

"Look at her shoes John," He looked like a kid in a candy store. Although that was his normal look when he discovered the cause of death.

"Her shoes?" John gave Sherlock the "this is not the time to be a fashionista" look. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gestured to her feet. He was still smiling like he was proud of himself.

"So? They're just some sneakers, nothing special." John shrugged, waiting for the coming explanation on how stupid he was. Getting none he continued with the most bizarre explanation he could think of. "Oh let me guess the shoes are brand new and not broken in yet so she tripped and broke her neck" John retorted sarcastically. Sherlock looked surprised.

"Well at least you're good at something." He seemed serious which is the most irratating thing in the solar system if you are his one and only friend. The worst of it is that if you told Sherlock this he would either ignore you or ask you what the solar system was.

"I was right," John laughed "She broke her neck because her shoes weren't broken in. Right, sure"

"That's the only explanation I can come up with unless..." Sherlock looked into the distances like they do in the movies. He was obviously deep in thought. Ugh, John hated when he did this. He sat down.

"_This could take a while" _he thought. It usually did. Sometimes Sherlock would go off for hours on end and not move, sometimes hardly blinking. John had once gone on a short holiday and come back to find Sherlock sitting in the same spot unshaven with a tray of uneaten biscuits next to him. Then, he would snap right out of it and not even know that John had been gone. That wasn't even the worst of it though because Sherlock would then tell him to be his personal secretary and text a murderer or something like that. He didn't even know that John had a life outside of solving crimes. He was a great doctor and father to be. Although his wife is an ex assassin, but that was besides the point. John was pondering what color the nursery should be (definitley not the alarming shade of teal that Olphelia's t-shirt was), when Sherlock finally came back to earth.

"Molly should be here soon," he uttered almost to himself though loud enough for John to hear in the empty, dusty, house. There was a distinct slam of a car door and the old house groaned as Molly climbed the old Victorian steps.

"Oh!" Came her distinct cry. That was all Sherlock needed. John had never seen him move that fast. Well maybe when they were running away from the police after being arrested. Or maybe the time they were chasing a taxi through London in the middle of the night on the day after they met. Come to think of it he had moved pretty fast when he heard a weird wheezing sound outside. But other than that Sherlock preferred to stay at a normal fast paced walk that was just fast enough for John to have to jog to keep up with him. Sherlock probably could take care of it. Molly probably just walked into a chair or a spider web. At least that's what John hoped had happened.


	3. Chapter 3

"Finally." Sherlock closed the door behind Molly, who was shyly standing in the doorway.

"Um, oh, sorry." Molly stuttered, moving her dropped purse onto the floor. "There was a bit of traffic on the bridge."

"It's fine." Sherlock glanced up and away awkwardly, biting his lip.

Molly gave a tiny smile. "Hello, John." She waved to him across the room. "I suppose there's a reason I left lunch for this?"

"Um yeah, actually there is." John said and walked over to where Sherlock was standing. "We were just wondering if you could inspect this lady. There appears to be no likely signs of death here besides falling of course."

Molly looked confused. "Isn't that your job?"

Sherlock stood up. "Yes, but I was just wondering if you might have a second opinion." He pulled out a chocolate chip granola bar. "Here's lunch if you, uh, want it."

Molly raised her eyebrows, but didn't bother saying anything. She had been around Sherlock Holmes too long to expect anything other than abnormal.

Molly stooped down and used the magnifying glass Sherlock had provided. "Her neck is broken for one thing."

"Yes, yes we know. But anything unusual?" Sherlock impatiently tapped his foot.

"Well hold on a second!" Molly rolled her eyes and kept searching the woman. "We probably should have taken her to the lab and reported her death before doing this." She sounded worried for breaking the law. "I don't want it to look like we murdered her."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please. If I wanted to murder someone, I'd do it better than this."

John looked at the ground, unsurprised. "Thanks Sherlock, we needed that right now."

John was almost back to his regular old self by now. He took the incident with the statues just to be a trick of his eyes. Statues couldn't move on their own anyway. "I'm getting old," John laughed at himself, even though he was not nearly old enough to be seeing things. But whatever excuse, John had cast aside the experience and decided to focus on the case.

"That's odd..." Molly muttered, pulling on plastic gloves and inspecting Ophelia's neck. "It actually looks like..." She paused, "as if she was strangled!"

Sherlock smiled and stood up, but Molly kept talking. "But these hand marks are unlike any finger marks I've ever seen before. And oh-" Molly gasped. "Look at the depth, this attacker must have had an iron grip!"

Sherlock held out his arms. "Molly Hooper, you are amazing, you are fantastic!" He smiled.

Molly raised her eyebrows, but her cheeks flushed. "What did I do?"

"You just uncovered a large piece of the puzzle!" Sherlock yelled, pulling up his sleeves.

"But wait...couldn't you just figure that out yourself?" John asked, skeptical.

"No..." Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable. "Well I'll tell you later. Let's just say I've had ... problems lately." He frowned.

Molly asked about the elephant in the room. "Well what now?"

"Oh c'mon Molly you've done this long enough." Sherlock started walking toward the front door. "Call Lestrade and get fish and chips."

"Oh right," Molly blushed like that was an obvious answer, picked up her purse, and followed Sherlock out the door like a lost puppy.

John took one last look at Ophelia Diann. She had platinum blonde hair, and was wearing a college sweatshirt with a neon blue t-shirt underneath and black vans. Before, John hadn't had that much of a good look. But now he could see broken round glasses lying next her, and noticed that she probably wasn't accustomed to this particular outfit in the way that it was loose and just looked to be a casual outfit. He had learned from Dolly that Diane was an accountant, so she probably usually wore heels and a dress.

John felt his heart weight down a little as he noticed she was a lot younger than John, and had practically just started out in her career. And now here she was dead as a doornail in some lonely haunted house, with no family or close friends besides crazy Dolly to mourn her.

"Sentiment." Sherlock suddenly spoke from behind him, startling John.

"Oi!" John whirled around, just a little jumpy. "Don't scare me!"

Sherlock eyed him. "What's the matter John. A little on edge today, yes?"

John shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Where's Molly? And what do you mean 'sentiment?'"

Sherlock ran a hand along the wood stairwell. "She's outside calling her team to come pick Ophelia up." Sherlock waited for a reply, and when there wasn't any, he continued. "Are you still up for Fish and Chips?"

"Sherlock." John groaned.

"Alright fine." Sherlock paused to go on one of his long lectures. "What I mean 'sentiment' is that there really no advantage to it. What do you get from being sad or mad or angry? Does it help you make decisions or make you live better? No, and mourning someone you don't even know is simply irrevocably full of sentimentality. What does this help with? Will her spirit be happier because you felt sorry for her? I think not." Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"How did you 'observe' that I was feeling sorry for her?" John slowly asked, careful of his word choice.

"Obvious really." Sherlock retorted. "When I walked outside with Molly, you stayed behind, so there was obviously something that was bothering you. When I came back in, you were looking at Opelia at rubbing your knuckles. I've known you so long that you're guilty or upset when you do that. You do it everyday when you forget the milk at the shop. I guessed the latter, because you obviously did not kill Ophelia Diann. And what else could you be upset about, besides that fact that you were not able to save her?" Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets with a smug expression that he always got after his deductions.

John sighed. "So you could tell all that from an itch on my ring finger, but you couldn't tell that Ophelia was strangled?" John asked, rather confused.

"I um...well..." This time, Sherlock was uncomfortable. "I need g-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade walked in, papers and files in his right hand, saving Sherlock from an uncomfortable truth. "Hurry up and get her out of here, this place is creepy." He told two officers who had come with him. They rushed over to take Ophelia to St. Bart's where Molly worked.

"Sherlock, you've been quiet lately. No new cases?" Lestrade asked, hands in his pockets.

"Well we're trying to solve this one first, Gavin." Sherlock smiled fakely. John could tell he just wanted to go.

Lestrade frowned. "Greg."

Sherlock patted his shoulder. "Right. So you up for fish and chips?" Sherlock started to walk to the cab that he could see Molly was already seated in.

"Sherlock, you okay?" You're acting weird." John frowned.

"Yes, John I'm perfectly alright. Let's go, ALLONS-Y!" Sherlock had his "acting" voice in use, and John knew that somehow the "fish and chips ruse" was actually part of the case. "It's French for "let's go," Sherlock said before anyone could ask.

"Coming, Geoff?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

Greg sighed and followed. "It's the middle of a case, why are we going to eat?" He signaled to his team that he was leaving, and left them to take care of Ophelia.

"Well you know it isn't always crimey-solvey." John remarked.

"I see." Lestrade rolled his eyes and followed his companions into the cabs that awaited them.

But no one saw the strange stone faces peering out of the second story window, seeming to be weeping at the departure of the detective and his companions


	4. Chapter 4

JOHN POV

"Come on then let's get going." Sherlock seemed anxious, something he never was. Maybe he's claustrophobic or something-who wouldn't be packed into a cab with Molly, Lestrade, &amp; John? But Sherlock wasn't claustrophobic, eager maybe but not claustrophobic. If anything he was not his usual self. Usually on a case he was calm, cool, and collected with an occasional smile when he found the murderer. But, on the bright side he wasn't his usual self when Molly was around. He wasn't as mean to John when she was around. He almost seemed to want to please her by not insulting everyone as much as usual. But, of course Sherlock had just said himself sentiment and love was human error. A new thought arose to John and he quickly dismissed it.

Of course not, Sherlock couldn't have actually had an emotion for someone. Let alone plain Molly who he constantly made fun of and dragged around town filling in for John if he was on holiday. No, Sherlock was just eager to catch the murderer. Yeah, that's it.

"Should I call Mrs. Hudson and tell her to meet us there?" Molly asked to no one in particular. She was obviously trying to break the ever growing silence in the packed cab. She was never one for awkward silences. Unfortunately she was usually the one who caused them. Poor Molly, never knew just what to say. "Well, umm, Should I?" She seemed nervous as no one answering her. Everyone else was obviously deep in thought. Sherlock's expression was the picture of puzzlement.

"No, no she's out of town for the day. Visiting her sister, it's a wonder England hasn't fallen yet," He smiled almost as to make a joke. Something was definitely wrong. Sherlock never made jokes. Ever. Not getting as much as a smile from anyone he went back to staring at the back of the cabbie's head. He slipped back into his deep thought. He was probably pondering how he, being the smartest and cleverest man in England, had made a mistake. And so, the awkward silence continued.

"You okay Sherlock?" Lestrade said, he to had the look of confusion that John had on his face. Sherlock looked up annoyed. His majesty had been disturbed from thinking on his throne.

"Of course I'm fine, what else would I be?" And so they continued in silence the cab grew immensely as if the elephant in the room wasn't big enough before. After what seemed like eternity (even longer than waiting for Sherlock to come back from the dead) they finally turned onto Baker Street. They all climbed out and were heading into Speedy's when they were startled by a someone shouting.

"I know for a fact that you intentionally took a longer route," Sherlock was shouting at the poor cabbie. He was very peculiar about his cabbies, always shouting at them about their routes.

"At least he's back to his normal self shouting at people and hunting murders again" John muttered. Oddly enough John liked the normal Sherlock better than the nervous Sherlock. John, Lestrade, and Molly exchanged looks of understanding and proceeded into Speedy's.

" 'Ello Jim, we'll be at the normal table," They picked their way through the steady throng of customers to the empty back table always reserved for the "Reichenbach Hero" and the short guy who blogged about him.

"That's me of course," John thought. Nobody was moving out of the way like they usually did when Sherlock was with him. It was Sherlock they respected, not some ex-army doctor with a semi-popular blog. They didn't care that there was a respected officer from Scotland Yard or the most brilliant forensic scientist that John had ever met had just entered the restaurant. They didn't make an effort to get out of their way. Actually it was almost the opposite. This made getting to their normal back table difficult to get to. No, all they cared about was the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. They could care less about his entourage. The table only had the normal two chairs at it (Sherlock tended not to associate with people whose intelligence was lower than his, or ordinary people as he called them) so Molly and Lestrade pulled up chairs from the always empty neighboring tables. It was almost as if Sherlock had drawn a line onto the dusty floor that "ordinary" people couldn't cross. He did seem to have that effect on people. He scared most but after he saved a few lives (John did the medical part) and solved a few murders people treated him with respect but were still wary of him. Always sneaking glances at him like he was a bomb about to go off.

"What'll it be guys?" Jim looked around, "Hmm, No Sherlock today? Is he on a case?" Getting no reply from the trio he answered his own question. "Of course he is," he chuckled at himself, "We haven't heard any shooting coming from above here." Now he was lost in his own joke. He began to laugh thinking that perhaps they would join in in his cheerfulness. But, after seeing their frowning faces he realized he wasn't going to get a laugh out of them and his smile faded. He had just realized that they were obviously on a case, and not just here for lunch.

"Is it a mass murder? I haven't seen anything in the papers lately." John shook his head.

"No just the one but it's a sad one," He turned his attention to the ground. Almost as to study the lines in the dust on the weathered old floor. "No one here to mourn her." Jim joined John staring at the floor and Molly became very interested in the state of her freshly painted nails. (Red, John noticed. The shade Sherlock likes.)

The bell rang signaling there was a new customer. Jim looked over his shoulder "Mm that's another costumer, be right back," He turned around to began picking his way through the crowded restaurant but stopped. "Oh, that'll be Sherlock now," Sherlock stormed through the restaurant practically seething with anger. All activity in the crowded restaurant stopped, they were all watching Sherlock. It was as if the whole lot of them were holding their breath, waiting and watching. Sherlock didn't seem to notice though.

"It seemed impossible that Sherlock would not notice something though. No, sorry he "observed". He never noticed he observed." John thought smugly. Sherlock constantly lectured him on the difference.

But, Sherlock just made his way to the trio and Jim. His swiftness and curtness cut through the tension in the room like one of their mismatched steak knives. About halfway to the table from the door he finally seemed to notice that people were staring. Then he snapped. He rarely snapped. Actually John had only seen him snap twice. Once when criminals tortured Mrs. Hudson (He really did them in) and once when a bum insulted Molly. He had told the police he had "tripped" and broken those bones but John knew better. Sherlock genuinely cared for her even if he said that love was a human error. But boy, when Sherlock snapped he sure did snap.

"What is everyone staring at?" Sherlock glared at the costumers. "Get back to eating. They won't call it an eatery if you don't eat in it," To anyone else it might have sounded like he was joking. But not Sherlock, he was serious. Dead serious. The silence broke when someone dropped their fork. It clattered to the ground and the spell was broken. Seats scuffed and glasses clinked, chatter began creeping back into the dreary London atmosphere. Sherlock resumed his trek through the various chairs and people. The silence might have broken but not the nervousness that came when Sherlock walked into a room with his collar up and his intimidating cheekbones. He was a time bomb. If you listened closely you could almost hear the soft tick, tick, tick of his patience waning when he was around ordinary people. He had no use for their common thoughts and snide remarks. All he had time for was his massive intellect and his mind palace.

The king himself sat down. More like threw himself down like a puppy who had been denied mother's milk. He huffed and looked at them all.

"Well?" He was annoyed again. They exchanged looks. He was dangerous when he was annoyed. You never knew what he would say or do. Molly was the first to find the courage to speak.

"Well what? You know we aren't mind readers you know." Sherlock smiled as she frowned at him.

"Here comes some clever retort" John thought, "Poor Molly, you will never win her over if you keep making fun of her like this." He waited grimacing. He knew Sherlock was already infuriated and could snap again at any time. But, now Sherlock was smiling. That was never good. Sherlock and smiling didn't exactly go hand in hand. If Sherlock was smiling there must be murder in the air. Unnerved, John squirmed in his chair. The silence was ever growing and even more awkward.

"Well, have you ordered yet?" He finally broke the silence and eye contact with Molly.

"No, not yet, We were waiting for you to stop shouting at the poor cabbie who obviously just lost his mum and needs a little extra money to tide him over," Molly was almost shouting herself and Sherlock looked surprised.

"Wow, The King just met the Queen and she sure can put him in his place." John chuckled. Sherlock was actually experiencing emotions today. Molly was the picture of defiance as if she had finally found her backbone. Sherlock's face was confused. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or to be taken aback.

"You observed all of that?" He seemed pleased. Almost as Molly had just passed a test. With Sherlock I'm sure she did.

"No, I Noticed all of that" she sneered.

"Wow" was the only word that John thought. Who is this and where did they put the shy little girl who always did as she was told?


	5. Chapter 5 The Box?

Lestrade took a bite of his ham sandwich and tapped his fingers on the menu. He was sitting with Molly on his left and John on his right, with Sherlock across the table.

"So..." Greg tried to start up a conservation after Molly's outburst. "...why are we here again?" He looked at Sherlock's ponderous expression. "You don't usually stop a case for a bite to eat."

Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth into a small smile. "Not usually no." That was all he said, and nothing was explained. That was the problem with Sherlock, Greg thought, most of the time you had no idea what was going on.

John took a huge swallow of his drink and seemed unphased by what was going on. Lestrade elbowed him under the table. John spit out his drink onto his lap. He looked up annoyed.

"What was that for?" He mouthed, and reached for a napkin to mop up the mess.

Lestrade shrugged as if it was obvious. Sherlock was acting more strange than normal, and he seemed to be the only one who wasn't surprised. Come to think of it, John was acting a little jumpy today too. What was different about this case?

Sherlock snorted across the table. He knew what Greg was getting at, and he was wasn't going to say a thing.

Lestrade sighed and set down his fork. He looked over at Molly who had silently been twirling her pasta this whole time. She had a look of defiance on her face, and Lestrade knew she wasn't going to talk anymore. "I'm going to the bathroom." He muttered and screeched his chair back, leaving the awkward company back at the table.

He stomped around the corner, hands in his pockets. Lestrade was extremely uncomfortable back in the resturant, and neither Sherlock nor John seemed in the mood for talking about the case. Really there was no reason for Lestrade being there except for friend support, and really, it didn't seem like Sherlock really thought of him as a friend sometimes. Lestrade always came when he called, but when did Sherlock ever care for someone else? Or even get his name right?

"That's just the way he is," Lestrade told himself, but something inside kept nagging him that maybe he should not help out on this case. It seemed more dangerous than any other, but Greg couldn't see how. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

Greg pulled on his tie and pondered whether he should just go back to Scotland Yard without telling his friends; he wasn't much use now anyway.

But a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

Lestrade immediately went into defense mode, his shoulders tensed.

"Relax, it's just me." It was Sherlock behind him, sounded quite annoyed and anxious.

"Oh, Sherlock." Greg breathed and turned around to greet his companion.

Sherlock was dressed for the winter weather and already had his scarf and coat on. "Going somewhere?" Greg asked, biting the inside of his lip.

Sherlock ignored him. "Lestrade, listen very carefully to what I'm going to say. It's very important that you answer this truthfully."

Lestrade frowned. Sherlock was acting like he was stupid. "Okay?" He said it more of a question than an answer.

Sherlock placed his hands on Lestrade's shoulders. "Listen to this word and tell me if you've heard it before."

Greg waited and Sherlock spoke slowly. "Tardis." The tension in the hallway intesified. "T.A.R.D.I.S." He spelt it out this time.

Lestrade didn't answer at first. He'd done a lot of crazy and illegal things for Sherlock, but this was one thing he couldn't do.

"No." He looked away from Sherlock's searching eyes.

"You're lying." He answered back almost immediately. "You have heard of it."

This time Lestrade shook off Sherlock's arms. "I'm sorry Sherlock. This is one time I can't help you." Greg felt his heartbeat quicken. He was nervous. How did Sherlock even know about The Tardis? As far as he knew, it was part of U.N.I.T's division, and they were always very secretive about their information. But there were a few files and stories Lestrade had collected over the years...

"The Box." Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth, desperate for information. "The Blue Police Box." Sherlock's tone and eyes softened. "Please, Lestrade. It has to do with the case."

Lestrade snorted. "Please! Sherlock, I know what this case is about and no 'Tardis' was involved." Lestrade started toward the door at the end of the hall. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at him. "Wait!" He called and ran to catch up.

Lestrade groaned. "All right! I can tell you one thing and that's it." He looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the only soul was the resturant cat that slinked by the windowsill. "If you want information on a Tardis, you'll have to go to U.N.I.T." Sherlock nodded. "And I'm sorry but that's all I can tell you."

"G'night Sherlock." Lestrade turned away again and pushed open the door, walking away into the cool night air.

Back at the resturant after Sherlock had left, John was ready to leave. He had already been through a lot of emotional turmoil today, and the awkwardness at the table wasn't really helping.

"John?" Molly looked up at him. "I think I'm going to head out out." John looked down at her untouched plate. "Do you have any change for my cab?"

"Oh, sure." John startled, and reached into his pocket for some money. As he was counting the right number, he bit his lip. "I'm sorry about earlier." He looked down. "Sherlock's been a bit strange today and I don't know why."

"Yeah," Molly said and took the coins from John's outstretched hand. "It's alright." She was strangely quiet.

"See you around, John." She smiled, picked up her bag, and walked into out the door into the rain.

John sat all alone at the table. He was almost certainly sure Sherlock wasn't coming back, and Lestrade seemed to be have left also, since it had been almost a half and hour.

John stared down at his empty plate, feeling awfully lonely. He was the only other one in the resturant besides the staff. He sighed and left the check on the table.

He walked outside and up the stairs to 221B. John stood on the threshold and pulled out his phone. He texted Mary a quick message, asking her if he could stay at Baker Street that night. She soon texted back, saying it was perfectly alright. John needed some "man-bonding" as she put it.

John pushed open the door and hung up his jacket on the coat hanger. "Sherlock?" He yelled, seeing if he was home.

Sherlock didn't answer, but John could see that he was laying on the couch, his hands pressed under his chin.

"When did you get here?" John asked, sitting down on his chair. "I'm staying the night by the way."

"Oh," Sherlock muttered. "Good."

They sat in silence for a while, not saying anything. Then John spoke. "Why did you leave?"

It took a while for Sherlock to answer. "I had to ask Lestrade a question."

"Oh alright." John bit his lip. "Where's my laptop?"

"Over on the counter." Sherlock answered.

John stood and walked over the the kitchen. He frowned and sighed. "Next to the bag of thumbs I see."

"Experiments, John." Sherlock smiled absentmindedly.

John sat down again, but then stood back up. He had left his USB drive in his old room, and John went to go get it. He walked down the hallway, but stopped short when he almost stepped on a seemingly new pair of glasses. He frowned and picked them up.

"Sherlock?" He called, and showed them to him back in the living room. "Glasses?"

Sherlock shot up and snatched them from John's hand. "No, they're not mine."

John laughed. "Yes they are! Try them on!" He took the glasses back and stuck them on Sherlock's face. "Why don't you like them?" He smiled.

"Because," Sherlock flopped down on the couch. "Mrs. Hudson said they were..." He made a face. "'Cute.'"

John laughed and opened his computer. "So that's why you made Molly come today!" He logged into his blog. "That's kind of rude, I can make deductions too, you know."

Sherlock didn't say anything but crossed and uncrossed his legs. John didn't know that there was more than one reason he had invited Molly to the Crawley House.

John sat down at the small desk by the window. He looked out across the street and watched people go on with their lives. A mom dragged her kids across the street, both of them screaming and crying. A group of teenage girls strode across the road with a dozen shopping bags in their hands.

John wondered how people could have such ordinary lives when his was so ridiculous. When he was a kid, John wanted a normal life; a wife and kids, 9 to 5 job, no excitement. But here he was, living this crazy life with the world's only consulting detective and an assassin as a wife.

John turned his head to look at the bank across the street. The stone pillars had alcoves inside where stone statues sat. Once, John and Sherlock had solved a bank robbery there. John stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. His paycheck from his work was inside.

"Oh," John exclaimed. "Sherlock, I'm going to go cash this is in at the bank."

"Hmmm." Sherlock hummed and picked up his newspaper.

John stood up and looked out the window again at the bank. He thought of telling Sherlock about his incident with the statues earlier, but thought better of it. Sherlock might think he was insane.

John picked up his coat and walked out of the living room. He checked the mailbox. "Sherlock!" John called, pulling out a deep blue envelope. "There's a letter for you." He tossed it onto Sherlock's lap.

A tiny smile crossed his lips. "Thanks."

Sherlock stood up and opened the envelope. There was a letter with all caps hand writing and strange circular shapes. Sherlock dropped it on the ground and pulled out a photograph of a blue box.

"That's a Police Box." John said, confused. "Like from the 1950's."

Sherlock didn't answer, but studied the picture and smiled. He stuck a pin in the top and pushed it into the wall behind the couch.

"The game begins." Sherlock whispered, and stood with his hands behind his back.

John shook his head and left Baker Street, walking toward the bank. He looked both ways and crossed the street.

His heart almost stopped as he took a closer look at the statues on the alcoves of the bank.

They were the exact same as the angels he saw at the Crawley House.


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, I see you got another picture of that blue box of yours," John looked at the giant cluster of various photos, and newspaper clippings all depicting a blue police box. But, this new picture was different it was of a man. He was tall and slim and- hmm that's odd-he was wearing a red sort of cap. He knew what it was called but just couldn't remember. He thought about it for a bit and Sherlock sat in silence. He was obviously in his mind palace and wouldn't pay attention to John staring at his wall. Now he knew it was a fez- that's what the red cap was called. But that itching feeling was still there. He knew this man from somewhere. Where? That was the question. He racked his brain but couldn't seem to remember ever seeing the man. Sherlock stirred and came out of his mind palace.

"You've seen him too then?" He asked, ignoring the fact that he hadn't moved for the past ten minutes.

"Hmm yes, I've seen him, but. . . I don't know where." John was still puzzled.

"He's someone you know," he smirked.

"Oh I'm getting hints now?! Isn't this nice?!" John threw up his hands as he shouted. Then he folded his arms trying to remember when he ever saw this man. Defeated, he turned to Sherlock. "Fine, go on, who is it?" Sherlock smiled. He had won this round in a game John didn't want to play.

"Well, you walk past the picture every time we go see my girlfriend. You should know who it is." John spun around. He looked as if he had just been electrocuted.

"You have a girlfriend?! That we visit? Since when?!" He exclaimed practically shouting. Sherlock just smiled. (He had been doing that more often. Not normal.)

"Why do you seemed so surprised I'm allowed to have a girlfriend, aren't I?" It was almost a challenge. John searched his ever changing eyes trying to seek the truth. Sherlock held his stare and confirmed the fact that he wasn't lying.

"Well," John became suddenly interested in the dusty floor. "I suppose so, it's just..."

"What?" Sherlock seemed surprised.

"Well, the last girlfriend you had, you were using to break into a building in which you got shot." John almost chuckled. It was taking all of his might to restrain his smile. Sherlock cocked his head trying to gage his attitude and inflection.

"Well, umm, who is it?" John broke the silence that had manifested itself in the dusty room filled with various body parts. Sorry, "experiments" as Sherlock insisted they were called.

"Mmm?" Sherlock looked up. "I thought it was obvious." He looked confused and tried to read John's expression. Seeing John was genuinely confused he sighed.

"Who is it then?" John was getting irritated why didn't Sherlock just plain say things. Not everything has to be clever.

"It's Molly." he looked embarrassed. But John was shocked.

"Our Molly, the one you drag all around London to look at dead bodies? Is that what you call a date or something?"

"Yup." Sherlock got up and out on his coat and the notorious scarf. "Coming?"

"Aren't you going to tell me who he is?" John was still standing in the middle of the room motionless.

"You mean you don't know?" John shook his head like it was obvious.

"It's her dad." Sherlock tied his scarf and took the steps two at a time his coat billowing behind him.

John was confused and inspected the picture more closely. He realized that he had seen his picture this was just a younger version of him. He suddenly remembered seeing him a little older standing with a young Molly whose hair was up in pigtails beaming. There was also a woman there. She must be her mom. She was so happy looking. She had on bright red pumps that matched Molly's red Mary Janes. They all looked so happy. Molly didn't talk about her parents much. They both died pretty young. She had spent most of her teens living with her Aunt Clara and her Grammy and Gramps as she called them.

"You coming?" Sherlock called up the stairs. He was very impatient. John tore his gaze from the picture and proceeded down the steps.

"Yeah," He stood with Sherlock as they waited for a cab. "Where are we going anyways?" Sherlock gave him the "are you kidding me" look again and sighed.

"To pick up Molly of course! Then to the Crawely residence I need to look for a blue box."

§§§

"There is no need to ring the bell, Molly, it's been abandoned for years." Sherlock stated. She looked at the ground,

"Sorry, I forgot." Sherlock realized his mistake and tried but failed to apologize.

"No, no it's ok, you were err, just being respectful, I'm sure. Yes! That's it." he seemed excited with himself. John chuckled, as it was probably the first apology he had ever made.

They headed inside the estate. Sherlock headed right for the scene of the crime, but Molly lingered in the great hall starring in the mirror.

"Molly this is not the time to check your makeup,"Sherlock yelled as he climbed the Victorian steps.

"Its not that, its just that I, I..." She stammered looking stunned.

"What is it?" Sherlock looked concerned and started to descend the steps. "Are you ok?" His voice got soft. John had only ever heard him use that voice when he had been talking to a hurt mutt in the alley they had encountered one day while on a case. Sherlock had stopped the entire case just to help the poor mutt. He had used the same voice to calm it down.

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just this mirror." She paused, "It has the sames pattern on it as my dad's old pocket watch." She giggled like a little girl. "I know this is silly but I used to make sense of the circles. I even made an alphabet out of them. You see I pretended that the little circle were words and that they spelled out sentences and stories. Actually they were all about my dad traveling in this blue box and all of his adventures in space." She smiled bashfully. "I was a silly kid you know. " she was laughing but Sherlock looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"Molly? Would you be able to translate these circles?" Sherlock pronounced every word with great effort. Molly looked confused but nodded.

"Sure I guess I could but it was just pretend, you know." Sherlock gestured to the mirror. "Ok, it says. . .

Authors' Note- Cliff Hanger! Please read and review!


	7. Chapter 7

Molly's eyes watered with tears. "It's says-" she broke off. She dug her face in her sleeves and blinked hard. Sherlock stared at her, suddenly uncomfortable and impatient.

"What? What does it say?" He hissed. Then his tone softened and he patted her shoulder awkwardly. "What does it say, Molly?"

Molly looked up at him. She stared at the markings again. "Don't blink." She stated, reading off the mirror. "And here it says, 'beware the weeping angels,'"

John felt his heart in his throat. His heartbeat began to quicken surprisingly fast.

Molly snorted incredulously. "B-but that's impossible." She looked around the room. "The weeping angels are just a kid story. A-a fairy tale."

Sherlock's face was blank. John couldn't tell if he was surprised or clueless, but no stone statues had appeared on the wall at Baker Street. How could Sherlock know about them?

Sherlock turned away and walked around the room. He shook his head, his hair flying in all directions. "Molly, tell me the story." He sat down on a chair covered in cob-webs. "The story of the weeping angels."

Molly looked at the mirror again. "It's silly."

Sherlock tilted his head. "I'd like to know."

Molly sighed and crossed her arms. "On Halloween every year, I would always want to hear a scary story. I was just a kid, and nothing really mattered, I just wanted to be scared witless one night of the year." Her fingers started tracing the circles in the mirror absentmindly. "My Mum would always tell me about the weeping angels." She smiled to herself. "Oh they were scary. Stone statues that came to life and moved incredibly fast. My granddad used to say that if you blinked-," She didn't get to finish.

A large crash came from the adjoining room. "John!" Sherlock called, suddenly seeing he wasn't there anymore. There was no answer. "John!" Sherlock's tone was panicked as he ran into the next hallway, leaving Molly open-mouthed.

Sherlock ran from room to room, frantically searching for his best friend. His heart pounded inside his chest. What was Molly going to say? He thought desperately. If those "weeping angels" had gotten John- No, Sherlock thought. Don't think about that. But nothing else seemed to cross his mind.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock found a room where there was pitch blackness. He could faintly see a window outlined in the dark, and light should have been streaming thorough like all the other rooms. But there was no light here.

Sherlock smiled unconsciously. This must be where John was. "John?" He cautiously picked up a broken lamp from the hallway. He tiptoed into the disheveled room, weaving his way around tarps, pieces of broken furniture, glass shards, and dusty tapestries. No sign of his trusty sidekick. Where could he be? Although Sherlock tended to keep a cool head, he could feel the panic rising like bile in his insides. "No no no no. Try to think positive," the detective scolded himself.

Sherlock sighed in relief when he finally heard his best friend, John cry, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock started and rushed towards the voice, relief flooding through his system. "John! Where are you?" He flung open a pair of balcony doors and saw him, standing in front of three angel statues, their clawed hands shrouding their faces. "Fascinating..." He breathed, creeping towards the far right angel and whipping out a magnifying glass.

"You idiot, don't investigate! Help me! You don't understand. They're the weeping angels Molly told us about. We have to get out of here. Please." John was desperate, wishing that Sherlock would stop deducing.

Then he did the unthinkable: he blinked.

Sherlock thought he was hallucinating when he saw the statues move. There had to be a logical explanation for this. His brain raced at an inhuman pace, the neurons and synapses frantically trying to make sense of the situation. But no. It was impossible.

He was jerked out of his reverie as John shouted, "Run!"

Molly watched Sherlock run out of the room, frantically calling his best friend's name. She sighed. I'll never come before John. She thought dejectedly, but immediately chastised herself for such a selfish thought. John might be hurt and in danger. Molly crossed her arms and bit her lip. Come to think of it, being here alone and in this room might be dangerous too. There was something evil going on that no one here could understand.

Molly tugged on the hem of her lab coat. She hadn't even realized she was wearing it, she just wore it all the time.

She thought about what she had told Sherlock. Molly was still trying to wrap her brain around the fact that the made up language her grandmum and granddad used was in an old abandoned house that supposedly had evil monsters inside that could make you vanish into thin air.

Molly laughed to herself bitterly. It was like her childhood was coming back to life.

It's not that her childhood was bad. In fact, Molly had a wonderful childhood. She distinctly remembered stopping after school on Fridays for chips, and winter Sundays in the park building misshapen snowmen.

It wasn't having the memories that hurt, it was loosing them.

Molly's grandparents had died when she was 17. It was huge shock to everyone, especially Molly. They had raised her after her own parents mysteriously disappeared. But her grandparents never spoke ill of their children; in fact, her grandparents always made out her parents to seem like the best people in the world- even though they never saw their own daughter grow up. The doctors had told Molly it was something about a disease they had caught in a trip to America when they were in their 20's. But the memories of seeing both her grandmum and pop in a hospital bed made her still have nightmares occasionally.

And seeing the secret language her grandparents made up again just made her want to cry. Her heart ached for family Christmases and the ugly woolly sweaters her Aunt Clara always sent. It was never perfect, but it was home.

"I wish you had never left," Molly whispered, blinking back tears.

Blinking made her even more angry than upset. The weeping angels were terrifying as a kid, but as she got older they got less and less intimidating.

"Maybe it's just a trick." Molly said to herself, rocking back on her heels. "It just looks like the code." But somehow Molly knew exactly what the words said, and it worried her.

She wiped away her tears and stood up. She felt brave all of a sudden, like she could take on a whole fleet of Daleks; another made up story that her grandfather loved to tell. It was about him rescuing his wife and blowing up ten thousand of their ships. Molly always liked the way he described them- 1970's salt shakers with a whisk and a plunger. He'd draw a horrible sketch and somehow the story became more like a funny tale than a majestic rescue.

"I'm ready," she reassured herself as she tightened her pony tail. Molly took a step forward and fell down against a crack on the floor. She frowned, her fall had sort of ruined the moment.

When she looked back up, she screamed.

A stone statue with flowing robes and spread wings was standing in the doorway where it wasn't before.

It had its eyes open, pointed teeth, and sharp fingernails aimed straight at her defenseless body on the ground.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock could hear his name being called, but the reception seemed to be off. John's voice sounded like he was shouting through murky water. His head throbbed and spun. Why can't I see? He thought to himself, the air buzzing like a hive of wasps.

Suddenly it all came back; the strange markings on the mirror, Molly's strange childhood stories, and the statues that had somehow moved. Sherlock wasn't sure, but two words came to him: Weeping Angels.

"Sherlock!"

John's voice became clearer as Sherlock swam up toward consciousness in his imaginary murky lake. He sounded frantic and a little afraid. That make Sherlock move even faster.

Then he was awake, lying on the ground staring at the navy colored sky. He could see the moon peeking out through the clouds, a beautiful round beacon shining in a stormy sea. But this was no time to appreciate astronomy, Sherlock feared John Watson was in danger.

He sat up with difficulty; his head throbbed. He surveyed the scene. John held a garden rake in his hand, standing defensively in front of Sherlock, his eyes wide open at the weeping angels.

"Sherlock, thank God." John sighed in relief. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"John," Sherlock stood up and walked around John in a circle. "Are you fighting off potential evil aliens with a garden rake?"

John tightened his grip on the rake. "Yes." He said through his teeth.

Sherlock clapped his hands. "Marvelous." He stalked over to the three angels. "Now," he looked at John. "I'm guessing after we did something (not sure what) that let the angels move. Something that would let the angels move...John any ideas?"

John fought to keep his eyes open. "Uh...Molly said something about blinking?"

Sherlock smiled. "Fantastic," he moved closer to the building and motioned for John to follow suit. "When we blinked, the angels moved and knocked me over." He rubbed the sore spot on his head and scowled.

"Sherlock, I've seen these before," John admitted. "When we were here before, I met these three wooglies." He guestured toward the three statues.

"What? Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock said, annoyed.

John shrugged, not tearing his eyes away from the angels. "I thought I was crazy."

Sherlock smiled at him, happy he had a friend who would stick with him even when psycho killing statues attacked.

"What do we do now?" John slid over to where Sherlock was standing.

Sherlock didn't need to say anything though. A shocking scream rattled the windows of the house. Sherlock's didn't need a second thought. He knew who's scream that was: Molly Hooper's.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and dragged him into the house, running at full speed toward the room with the mirror.

"Basically, Run!" Sherlock careened around corners and sprinted down staircases. Every second he was away from Molly was another second she was in danger.

He finally reached the room where he had left Molly earlier. He stopped dead in his tracks, John breathing heavily beside him.

Another Weeping Angel was standing in the doorway. But this one was different than the three outside. The other three were broken and cracked; not very well taken care of. But this angel looked brand new. It's wings shown with polish and there was no cracks or blemishes in the stone.

"It's healthy," John remarked, not noticing the main part of the problem.

The angel was smiling; a creepy, grotesque smile that made Sherlock's blood run cold. It's eyes were open and blank without pupils. Sherlock found it hard to tear himself away from the eyes.

But this was not the most horrible thing about the whole ordeal.

Sherlock saw Molly's white lab coat clutched in its cold stone claws.


End file.
